


contrapposto

by spoopyy



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved
Genre: M/M, i love art and i'm very sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 17:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11537265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoopyy/pseuds/spoopyy
Summary: Ryan works in a museum. Shane doesn't understand art. They fall in love.





	contrapposto

**Author's Note:**

> i'm honestly a little bit embarrassed to post this because it's incredibly self indulgent. i just really, really love art. i recommend looking up the art pieces i mention, but it's not a necessity.

_the swing, by jean-honoré fragonard; infidelity_

London does not treat Ryan nicely. No, London is cold and rainy, gloomy in all the worst ways, and it’s awful. It’s _wet._ It’s foreboding. Maybe it’s foreshadowing and Ryan should have seen it coming all along.

Ryan hates it here. It’s stifling, it’s lonely, it’s anything but cheerful, really. He wants to go home but he can’t, not now, not when there’s so much he has left behind.

He’s always been good at running away.

It’s Friday night. Hertford House in Manchester Square is unusually quiet. Indeed, the museum, the Wallace Collection, is nearly empty, devoid of people, but Ryan has one more tour to do before closing.

He hates Rococo. He’d much rather turn to Titian’s masterpieces, wax poetic about Rembrandt, and revel in Rubens, but _no._ He has to explain Fragonard’s shitty pastel colors and Watteau’s _fête galante_ , but he didn’t specialize in French art for nothing.

“And to your left, you’ll see a piece by Jean-Honoré Fragonard. It’s called _The Swing.”_ Ryan’s French pronunciation is terrible, but he figures he can be forgiven. It’s late and he doesn’t even speak French. “It’s essentially about infidelity. See the man in the bushes? Yeah, he’s totally looking up her skirt. She knows it too, look at the way she’s looking at him. Cupid’s keeping her secret, if you notice the sculpture by her lover. It’s ironic, though, because there’s a dog in the bottom right, a symbol of fidelity. And her partner, the one pushing her, is none the wiser.”

He wants to say, _fuck the aristocracy, fuck hedonism, fuck dirty liars and cheats,_ but he doesn’t because that’s against company policy. If he didn’t have to keep his summaries PG-13, he’d go off about how Rococo is a sham and even though it’s aesthetically pleasing, it’s garbage. Really, he can spend forever talking about how everything Rococo stands for is absolute trash, but he’ll save his listeners the grief.

He finishes the tour with Watteau’s _The Halt During the Chase,_ and soon, the group that he was leading disperses.

Ryan feels alone again, when everyone finally leaves and he has to lock up. It’s a short walk to his apartment, and he spends the stroll thinking. He’s in his head a lot these days, lost to the world. He sees art in everything, and it’s hard to separate real life from paintings, but even so, he can’t help but feel like there’s something _missing,_ something that art can’t compensate for.

He’s still distracted when he gets home, and he when he opens his door, he really, really wishes he didn’t have to see the scene before him.

 _Does art imitate life or does life imitate art?_ Compositionally, they’re different, but in content? Ryan sees red.

His girlfriend is in bed with another man.

She’s in pale pink, a slip of a dress hanging from her thin frame, and she’s laughing, giggling, her face hidden by the sheets. Her slippers are on the floor next to her, on top of her lover’s clothes. Ryan’s not the one pushing her, though, and the bed doesn’t look anything like the red and gold swing. There’s no dog to complete the scene, no Cupid to keep a secret.

“What the fuck?” he exclaims, and his girlfriend and her lover immediately detach themselves.

“Ryan, no, it’s not what you think,” his girlfriend says. Ryan rolls his eyes. He can count the amount of times he’s heard that one before, but he’d need both hands and maybe a foot.

He leaves the bedroom in tears. Is he the problem? Is there something wrong with him? Or is he never good enough for anyone? Why else is he always cheated on?

There’s no resolution in Fragonard’s painting. There’s no _I’m sorries,_ there’s no _Don’t ever talk to me agains,_ there’s no apologies. There’s no forgiveness, no mention of a life after, no verdict. Fragonard captures a moment in time, one little blip in a life span, and it’s not fair, because Ryan needs answers, he needs an explanation, and Ryan doesn’t understand why artists portray one specific scene; it’s hard to live in the moment when all he wants to do is run away.

So Ryan gets out of there; all he really needs is his cellphone, his wallet, and his keys. He’s tired of listening to the excuses, he’s tired of being cheated on, he’s tired of uprooting his life for someone else and having it all crash down around him, and he’s so, so tired of not being enough.

He spends the next twenty four hours in a hotel room; he turns his phone off, goes to work, and gives his boss his two weeks. He’s never coming back to London, no matter how much he loves the artsdepot or the Tate Modern. He can’t bear the thought of staying in a city he hates, in a country that has never treated him kindly.

He leaves when the twenty four hours are up. Thankfully, his girlfriend isn’t home, so he packs up all of his clothes, all of his precious belongings, all of the art he’s collected over the years, and all of the memories he’s made. He packs his life up in boxes and says goodbye to London for the last time.

It doesn’t hurt.

* * *

 _leonardo da vinci’s ornithopter design;_ _humans are too heavy to fly using wings attached to the arms_  


Ryan meets Shane at the airport. It’s about a chance meeting as one can have in their lifetime; they’re both headed to France, Shane for business, Ryan for a new start.

“Have you ever been to France?” Shane asks, after the two exchange pleasantries. Normally, Ryan wouldn’t talk to strangers, but there’s something about Shane that’s just so captivating. Maybe it’s the way Shane’s tall, like the _Doryphoros,_ but skinny at the same time, like _David_. Perhaps in the the way Shane reminds him of the _Anavysos Kouros;_ the archaic smile is Shane’s specialty. Maybe it’s the way that Shane’s eyes are so warm, like something Da Vinci would paint, or maybe it’s the confidence and natural beauty that Shane exudes. If Ryan were Michelangelo, he’d sculpt Shane in a heartbeat, but Shane deserves much more than to be carved from a cracked slab of stone.

Ryan has met many beautiful people in his lifetime, but Shane’s a painting come to life.

“No. I’ve always wanted to visit. The Louvre is calling me,” Ryan says. He’s going to work there, maybe visit the Musée d’Orsay and say hi to Whistler when he has time, and he’s for sure going to see Palace of Versailles. He wouldn’t be a good art historian if he passed up that opportunity.

“Oh, do you like art?” Shane asks. What a question. _Of course_ he likes art; art has never broken his heart. It’s made him mad, sure, and upset, absolutely, but art has never made him feel worthless, not good enough, or any of the other feelings he tries to bury on a daily.

“Yeah, I’m actually a tour guide,” Ryan responds. God, that sounds so lame coming out of his mouth.

“That’s cool,” Shane says. It’s not, not really. How can it be cool when he barely makes enough to survive, when passion outweighs pay, when no one on Earth has the same appreciation for art that he does? Museums get lonely after a while.

“Yeah, I guess,” Ryan says. He doesn’t want there to be a lull in the conversation, he wants to talk to Shane and keep talking to him until all topics are exhausted, until he knows everything about Shane, knows his story, knows his colors, knows the composition of Shane’s figure, knows the context of Shane’s life. (Is this what flying feels like?)

“What brings you to France?” Ryan continues.

“Oh, I work for a media company. We’re filming in France for the next few weeks,” Shane says. Ryan just nods. Oh, so he’s going back to wherever he came from. Great.

Of course it’s too good to be true.

They board the plane. Ryan can’t help but to think about Da Vinci and his prototype for a plane. Sure, they were sketches at the time, but humans have always wanted to fly and Da Vinci has made it possible. (Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he’s reminded of Icarus. Poor boy, flying too close to the sun, _and what was he chasing,_ what is _Ryan_ chasing?)

They end up sitting next to each other. It’s nice because Shane’s not annoying, not like how some others passengers are when Ryan flies. They get to know each other on the hour and a half flight, but it’s not enough. They are going to go their separate ways once the plane lands and probably never see each other again.

Is there an art piece about heartbreak? Maybe, probably, but Ryan _just_ got out of a relationship and he can’t do this to himself again. He refuses to. But that isn’t enough to stop him from hesitantly giving Shane his number right before they part. Nothing may ever come of it, but hey, at least he can say he tried, right?

Maybe he understands now, why Brueghel painted _Icarus._ Flying is fun when there’s something to chase, but not when there’s no one to miss him. Maybe the only one who will miss Icarus is a resident of a lonely seaside town, one that keeps going, keeps enduring, one that captures a single moment, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it situation, a foot in the ocean.

And maybe that’s Icarus’s legacy, maybe that’s all it takes for Icarus to be immortalized in the spaces in between forever, to those who actually care and who give him more than a second glance, to those who gave him a _chance_.

Ryan gets it.

He’s taking a chance too.

* * *

The Louvre is the most beautiful museum he’s ever been to. It’s absolutely gorgeous and the range of art is truly impeccable. It’s everything he’s ever wanted and more.

France is good to him.

France starts to feel kind of like home, because how many people can say that they’ve worked in the Louvre, that they’ve sat by the Seine and thrown change in the water, that they’ve been to the top of the Eiffel Tower and touched the stars? _He’s going to be stardust one day._

He still doesn’t know a lick of French, but he learns eventually.

He learns by falling in love with Paris, and the city welcomes him with open arms. Slowly, Ryan opens his heart to Paris. It doesn’t heal him, not completely, but it’s almost enough to forget about his heartbreak. He goes to the Louvre every day to give a tour, and when he’s done with his shift, he goes sight seeing. The _Palace of Versailles_ is beautiful, it’s a treasure to experience, it’s a gem of architecture. The Hall of Mirrors blows him away, and he actually really does enjoy it, even if it is a symbol of all the bullshit the aristocracy got up to in the 18th century.

It’s not enough. Not enough to fill the hole in his heart, not enough to fix what’s been broken for a long time. It’s not enough to make him forget about Shane, who hasn’t called him back, and it’s not enough for make him forget about how lonely he is.

He starts sleeping around. Okay, maybe it’s not the best idea to sleep with strangers, but he needs something that’s makes him feel like flying. He went to France for adventure and to chase a job opportunity, so he’s damn well going to take advantage of what Paris has to offer.

Ryan learns French quickly after that. He learns how to say _‘fuck’_ and it escalates from there. He learns other swears, learns a number of bodies and learns people from all walks of life (because there is art in everybody, there’s beauty in every single person he meets, there’s magic and passion in everyone he sleeps with, even if it doesn’t last), and he learns how to give his short tour guide speeches in French, but he doesn’t learn how to love someone again.

It’s okay; he can talk to the vendors in the _marché,_ he can hold a conversation pretty well (his French isn’t perfect, it’s very basic, but he’s _learning_ and people seem to understand that).

It’s okay because he’s healing and growing, putting himself back together and finding himself all over again.

It’s okay because everything stops hurting, he feels like he’s living, and he loves France. Maybe not enough to stay forever, but it’s great in the moment. It nurtures his soul, gives him purpose, and he hasn’t even been there that long.

Yeah, he’ll be okay.

* * *

Shane texts him a few days later, and Ryan is definitely not expecting it. It’s been awhile since the plane ride; Ryan has an apartment to himself, a job he absolutely loves, and he’s surrounded by art every time he steps outside. Ryan realizes why France is so heavily romanticized.

_Hey, sorry for not messaging you sooner. I’ve been busy._

Ryan stares down at his phone. He wants to type, _I’ve been busy too,_ but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to think about the permanence of his stay in France; he’s staying but Shane is going, and Ryan tries not to be sad about it. He’d be lying if he said that he hasn’t been thinking about Shane every single day since the two met; he definitely wasn’t thinking of the other man during his sexual encounters, and he absolutely doesn’t believe in love at first sight, but why else would Shane constantly be on his mind?

Okay, maybe he’s a little bit more attached to Shane than he’d like to tell himself.

 _Don’t worry about it._ Ryan texts back. He doesn’t get a reply for twenty solid minutes and tries to resist the urge to throw his phone against the wall. What’s the point of talking to someone if they don’t respond in a timely fashion? Ryan has never been a patient person.

 _Is this your last day in France?_ Shane texts back. Ryan starts to panic. Was this Shane’s last day? They didn’t even get to know each other! They had a good conversation, sure, but Ryan doesn’t want to pass up the chance to actually get to know Shane on a deeper level. He texts back almost immediately.

 _No, I’m here to stay._ For how long? How long is Ryan going to stay? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care because he loves it here, but France isn’t his forever. He’s going to move someday, maybe when the architecture gets old and the novelty of France has worn off.

 _Oh._ Shane sucks at texting, because that’s all he says for five minutes. And then, _I leave tomorrow. Show me a good time?_ Ryan doesn’t know what he means. He’s not going to fuck this up with an offer of sex, though, because that would be presumptuous and he wants to get to know Shane like he gets to know art; slowly, surely, carefully, and for a long while after. The thought scares him, but France has awakened the risk-taking part of himself that he’s never realized.

 _Sure. Meet me at the Musée d’Orsay in an hour._ It’s the only part of Paris he hasn’t visited yet, and he’d really like to check this museum off of his bucket list.

Ryan’s phone buzzes again. _Okay._

Ryan grins.

* * *

“I don’t understand art,” Shane says, about an hour later. Ryan jumps; he’s been so consumed with looking at _Olympia_ that he didn’t even register Shane’s presence. It’s one thing to have learned about _Olympia_ in school, but to see it in person is quite the experience.

“It’s not that difficult, you know. It’s just stories,” Ryan says, tearing his eyes away from Manet.

“What’s the story behind that one, then?” Shane asks, pointing to _Olympia_.

“Well,” Ryan starts. He shifts his weight so that he’s in contrapposto pose, and he puts his fingers on his chin to emulate thinking. “First off, it’s a critique on the male gaze. Look at how confrontational she looks. That’s not a coincidence.” Once he gets started, it’s hard for him to stop. “So, she’s basically a prostitute, but she’s a prostitute on her terms and her terms only. She’s sexually independent from men and grants or restricts access to her body based on how she sees fit.”

“You got all of that from a painting?” Shane asks, mouth slightly open. Ryan loves impressing people.

“Mmm, it’s a widely accepted interpretation among art historians. Nothing is ever one hundred percent certain, and it’s not like we can ask Manet, but it’s still fascinating.” Ryan turns his attention away from _Olympia_ and gestures to another piece, Van Gogh’s _Self-Portrait._ “What do you think this one is about?”

“Uh, well, it’s a self portrait,” Shane starts, and Ryan laughs.

“See, it’s not that difficult!” Ryan responds.

“That’s not a story, Ryan,” Shane says, teasing. Ryan just raises an eyebrow.

“When did I say that an art piece _had_ to have a story? Sometimes, art doesn’t have to have a meaning.”

“Then what’s the point? Why do artists waste their time if the end result doesn’t mean anything?” Shane asks with a little bit of an edge to his voice.

Ryan bites his lip and turns to the Van Gogh painting, choosing his words carefully.

“You know, maybe art doesn’t have to have a point. Art that doesn’t mean anything isn’t necessarily bad, you know.” He pauses, and then, “Art for art’s sake has always been my favorite. This guy, Whistler, coined that phrase.” Ryan points to the painting of _Whistler’s Mother._ Okay, yeah, Whistler isn’t actually in that piece, but still, he’s trying to look cool. “Art can be whatever you want it to be. There’s art everywhere, you know. Some of it has meaning, some of it is just aesthetically pleasing, but they’re all important, all a product of their time, and all of them are beautiful.” Ryan doesn’t know when he stopped looking at the art around him and started looking at (describing? no, looking at) Shane.

Shane looks breathless.

“Wow, you really know your stuff, huh,” Shane says. Ryan smiles.

“I have a Master’s in Art History with a concentration in French Impressionism,” Ryan replies.

Shane whistles. “Wow.” He doesn’t have anything else to say, and Ryan is grateful. He’s always loved admiring art in silence, and now that Shane is quiet, he’s easier to appreciate.

“What’s your favorite art piece?” Shane asks, after a while of them just staring at each other. It’s not awkward.

Ryan shrugs.

“Oh, there’s so many. I love pretty much anything Whistler does. I love the _Nightwatch_ by Rembrandt and I like a lot of modern art. Renaissance art is nice, but I prefer High Renaissance just because of the Ninja Turtles. Oh, and I can’t forget about Romanticism. Impressionism is pretty too.” He pauses, considering, because he’s rambling. “I think _The Great Wave_ by Hokusai is my favorite. There’s something to be said about loving something so much, you’d die for it.”

It’s Shane’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“Oh come on, you’ve seen _The Great Wave_ before, everyone has,” Ryan replies. When Shane shakes his head, Ryan pulls out his phone and looks up the image.

“The little people in those boats? They love Mount Fuji so much that they’re looking towards it, instead of the wave that’s about to kill them. It’s kind of sad, really, but I think it’s nice that the last thing they see before the wave gets them is something they love.” He doesn’t want to explain the cult surrounding Mount Fuji because that would take too long to explain and he doesn’t think that Shane would be interested in hearing about Shinto mythology. (Whatever, his loss. It’s fascinating.)

“Uh, that’s morbid as hell,” Shane says. He scoots closer to Ryan to get a better look at the picture, though. Ryan notices how nice Shane smells. God, he’s in too deep, and they’ve only just met, and okay, maybe Ryan has a thing for people who smell nice and -. Ugh. He needs to calm down.

“I guess. It’s yin and yang too, I think. The wave in the picture looks a lot like the swirl in Van Gogh’s _Starry Night.”_ Why is he just now making this observation? During his six years of higher education, not one of his professors has mentioned it before. Is he onto something? Should he call a curator? “That doesn’t have to mean anything, but whatever.”

“You’re really passionate about this stuff, huh?” Shane asks. He turns to Ryan; they’re so close. Ryan can see each of Shane’s individual eyelashes, despite the height difference.

“Yeah. Art is always something I’ve loved ever since I was little. I think it’s ironic because I can’t draw but you can’t have everything,” Ryan says. Is Shane moving closer?

“No. You can’t have everything, but you shouldn’t stop yourself from trying.” Shane tilts Ryan’s chin up so that Ryan can fully look at him. He barely registers the feeling of Shane splaying his fingers across Ryan’s cheek because they’re kissing. In the Musée d’Orsay. In Paris. It’s everything that Ryan wants except it’s more romantic to kiss in the Louvre, but hey, he’s not complaining because Shane’s lips are warm and this kiss alone is better than all the sex he’s had in Paris so far.

Ryan feels like flying. He knows what he’s chasing.

_Finally._

* * *

_david, by donatello; david was saved by love_

They decide to go long distance; Shane has to go back to Los Angeles to work, and Ryan’s stuck in France for at least two years. That’s what his lease says, after all, and he isn’t in the mood to break it, not for someone he just met.

Besides, he has a life in France. He’s a regular at the _boulangerie,_ and people from the _marché_ start to recognize him.

He’s making waves in the Louvre; each day, he lectures on something different. Each exhibit is a sight to behold, and he loves it. He learns from it (he doesn’t know every piece in existence, but it’s nothing a quick Google search can’t fix), and he feels better than he’s felt in a long time.

He and Shane text every day, and Skype as often as they can. Timezones are hard, but so are relationships, and if Ryan is going to be in one, then he’s going to put his every effort into it. It’s risky, sure, because they don’t _know_ each other, but they use their Skype calls as a way to bridge that gap. For instance, Ryan learns that Shane majored in Film in college, that he has a pet iguana, and that he sleeps with three blankets at all times, even in the summer. He learns that Shane doesn’t have a favorite color and that Shane is over six feet tall.

Shane knows a lot about Ryan too, like that Ryan wants to visit the _Sagrada Família_ more than anything _,_ he wants to own a dog, and that Ryan really, really dislikes Baroque art. Ryan has divulged that he has a thousand unread emails on his phone because he doesn’t like answering them, and that pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza. That nearly breaks them up but they get over it because it’s not like their food disagreements have anything to do with their relationship. They try to eat together on Skype but the nine hour time difference makes that very difficult.

The novelty of France wears off around the same time that he and Shane exchange social media. They should’ve done it sooner, but both are so busy with life that it’s easy to forget the little things.

Ryan amuses himself by going through every picture on Shane’s Instagram. He’s 200 weeks deep when he accidentally likes something, and he hurries to unlike it. He doesn’t want to seem like he’s stalking his boyfriend - there are kinder words to use than ‘stalking’, after all.

 _Are you really 200 weeks deep into my Instagram?_ Shane texts a moment later. Ryan exits out of Instagram to reply.

_Just admiring the art._

The amount of emojis he gets back is a bit overwhelming, but it makes Ryan excited. He hasn’t felt like this in a long time; he’s not worried about Shane cheating on him over in America, he’s not worried that they’re worlds away, he’s not worried about everything that can go wrong in a relationship. No, he’s felt better than he’s ever felt before.

He feels loved.

It doesn’t scare him, but he doesn’t say anything to Shane about it. They haven’t been dating long enough for Ryan to be comfortable with saying it, and he doesn’t know if Shane feels the same way.

Maybe it’s Paris that’s making him feel that way; sure, Paris has lost its sparkle, but still, there’s a reason that Paris is dubbed the most romantic city in the world.

Ryan starts to miss Shane somewhere around the six month mark. He loves France, he loves his job, but he misses Shane so much he’s willing to break his lease, quit his job, and fly to Los Angeles to see his boyfriend. That would be an incredibly stupid thing to do, but there’s nothing stopping him except for Shane’s disapproval.

It’s hard because there’s no one to hug when he’s sad, there’s no one to take up to the Eiffel Tower when he’s bored, and even though they talk every day, it’s hard when timezones aren’t in either of their favors and when Ryan needs someone physically present.

He goes to work and tries to not let the longing eat him alive.

* * *

 _What’s your favorite art piece?_ Ryan asks Shane one day. It’s the middle of summer in Paris, and while it’s not sweltering, the heat does make it difficult to sleep. He knows that he’s not going to get a response immediately; Shane is probably driving to work right now. Besides, Ryan likes waking up to a text from Shane. It gives him something to look forward to, at least, and although they talk about art sometimes, it’s something that Ryan doesn’t know about Shane yet.

Just as he thought, Ryan gets a response when he wakes up. He usually doesn’t check his phone until after he showers and brushes his teeth, but that changed when he and Shane got together. Ryan reaches for his phone and can’t keep himself from smiling when he reads what Shane texted back.

_The selfie you sent me yesterday._

Goddamn that’s smooth. That line alone would make Ryan fall for Shane if they weren’t already dating, but now that they are, Ryan realizes that he has the sweetest boyfriend in the world.

Maybe Ryan doesn’t need someone to fix him. Maybe he needs someone to support him so that he can fix himself.

And fix himself he does. He goes out more, he makes friends, and his French is really improving. It’s nice to have some stability, to not be such a stranger in foreign country, and it’s even nicer to have someone to share that with.

Their one year comes faster than either of them realize.

 _HAPPY ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY,_ Ryan texts, first thing in the morning. He’s not sure what time it is in Los Angeles, or which one of them gets to celebrate their anniversary first.

 _Happy anniversary. Did you get the package I sent you?_ Shane replies.

 _Not yet. I think it’s on it’s way?_ Ryan replies. _Did you get your present?_ Their one year anniversary is something to be celebrated, and what better way to celebrate than to get your significant other something they’ve wanted for a long time.

 _Yes, I did. Thank you so much, you’re so sweet._ Shane text back. Ryan sent him a bunch of things; Yeezys (it had been difficult to covertly ask for Shane’s shoe size, but he figured it out eventually), a handwritten card that could be framed in a triptych, detailing all the things Ryan loves about Shane, and  blue-ray box set edition of _Jurassic Park._ Ryan hasn’t ever really been good at gifts, but he figured he could get Shane something he himself would have liked.

His anniversary present comes a few hours later, and at first, he doesn’t know what it is. He sees a frame and gets excited; he loves art, no matter what it’s of or who it’s by. He nearly drops the frame when he sees what it is.

It’s _The Great Wave_. The fact that Shane remembered his favorite piece is so sweet. He almost starts tearing up, especially when he reads the note that Shane attached.

_Happy anniversary! Hope you like this. There’s a surprise under the painting; take it out of it’s frame._

Ryan doesn’t even hesitate. He takes the painting apart, the cardboard first, the print second, and then, two small pieces of paper flutter to the floor. Ryan picks them up and bursts into tears.

Two plane tickets to Spain.

He calls Shane immediately.

“Hey,” Shane answers tiredly. Ryan sniffs. He doesn’t have words right now, he’s so happy. “Are you okay, did something happen?” Shane asks, and he sounds worried.

“No, no,” Ryan says, getting his voice back. “I just got your present.”

“Oh, do you like it?” Shane says.

“Yeah, absolutely. Thank you so much. I love you,” Ryan says. He doesn’t realize what he says until Shane goes quiet on the other end. Shane is quiet for a concerning amount of time. Ryan bites his lip. Was that the wrong thing to say? Did he mess everything up? Does Shane love him back?

“I love you too. I’ll see you soon, those tickets are for next week. You’ll see Spain, you’ll see the _Sagrada_ _Família,_ and I’ll even take you to see _Las Meninas,_ ” Shane says.

“I’ll see you, too,” Ryan says. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Yeah, you’ll see me too,” Shane repeats.

“Are you going to meet me in France?” Ryan asks. He’s unsure about how they’re going to do this.

“Yeah, that was my next surprise. You kind of ruined it,” Shane says. Ryan can tell he’s smiling.

“When? What date?” Ryan asks.

“The 27th,” Shane replies. Ryan jots it down on his calendar. The 27th is in a few days. Could Ryan get any luckier to have Shane in his life?

“I’m looking forward to it. I miss you,” Ryan says.

“Aw, I miss you too. I’ll see you soon,” Shane says.

“See you soon,” Ryan echoes, and then Shane hangs up. 

* * *

 

_the kiss, by gustav klimt; love raised to the height of Jesus Christ_

If France makes him fall in love, Spain makes him realize that love isn’t something he ever wants to let go. Shane is rough and sweet at the same time, but Spain is gentle, and he never realized how much he needs both.

Ryan admires his hickeys in the mirror. They remind him of Whistler’s _Nocturne in Black and Gold_ from the way they fall from his neck down to his chest. His love bites are red and purple, clumped to one side like constellations. He hates London, but Cremorne is an exception. He kind of misses it, but for right now, he can carry Cremorne with him, next to his heart.

He comes back to bed and back into Shane’s waiting arms. They wrap around his his waist, and Shane kisses him over and over again and doesn’t stop kissing him until they’re both breathless. It’s good to know that Shane missed Ryan as much as Ryan missed Shane. Their visits were few and far between; plane tickets are expensive, but they’ll work on it.

Shane rests his head on Ryan’s chest and Ryan laces their fingers together. If Ryan were an artist, he’d capture this moment and preserve it. He understands why artists use snapshots to tell a story; he wants to live and relive in this one forever.

Oil on canvas wouldn’t do them justice, but then again, what medium could? Photography, perhaps, but not even photography can capture the colors of Ryan’s heart, the curve of Shane’s satisfied smile, the love that they’ve cultivated and life that they’ve built. Photography couldn’t accurately capture the way Ryan still gets butterflies whenever Shane looks at him like he hung the stars, or the way that the sunlight plays with Shane’s hair. No, not even Caravaggio’s tenebrism can capture that.

Ryan wouldn’t hang this moment in a museum. No, it’s too intimate for that, too precious. It’s something he crafted out of love, out of the pain of separation, out of the satisfaction of being reunited. It’s for them and them only, and nothing, no patron or monk or art thief, can take it away from them.

Hours later, they finally get up and go to the _Sagrada Família._ It’s gorgeous; Ryan hasn’t ever really liked architecture, but there’s something about being in a basilica that Ryan can’t explain. Maybe it’s the Passion facade, the interior of the roof, or even just the fact that he’s here with someone he loves to the moon and back.

Yeah, that makes more sense, because no building can make him feel the same way that Shane makes him feel, like he’s lighter than air, like he’s precious, like he’s something that can’t be traded for the world.  

“Tell me about this place,” Shane asks.

“Well, it’s a church,” Ryan starts. “Each facade has a different story about Jesus. Technically, it’s still under construction, but I like it the way it is. It’s so beautiful, I mean, you saw the outside. And I may have a thing for stained glass,” Ryan says, pointing it out. He’s quiet for a moment, and then, “I can’t exactly tell you what I love about it, I guess it’s just been the one piece of architecture that hasn’t pissed me off in some way.”

“Does that tend to happen a lot with buildings?” Shane asks. Ryan nods vigorously.

“Don’t even get me started with Postmodernist architecture,” Ryan says back.

Shane laughs.

They walk around a bit more, exploring Barcelona. It’s a beautiful city, really. Ryan feels at peace here; he feels better than he’s ever felt anywhere else in the world. He could live here, maybe after France, and maybe, hopefully, with Shane.

He can pretend, for a moment, that Shane doesn’t have to go back to Los Angeles in a few days, and that they can stay and grow together. He’s cherishing the time he and Shane get to spend together, and he’ll definitely need these memories when they’re worlds apart again.

Right now, though, he focuses on having fun and taking Spain in. The _Sagrada Família_ was everything he ever wanted it to be and more.

Madrid is the same way. The Museo del Prado is gorgeous too. He drags Shane to see all of his favorite pieces; he almost screams when he sees _The Garden of Earthly Delights_ in person (Shane has to kiss him quiet). He lights up at Titian and El Greco, and there are really no words to describe how Ryan feels when he sees _Las Meninas._ The whole painting is a trip and Shane is amazing for the way that he patiently listens to Ryan ramble on about the piece even when he doesn’t understand what’s going on.

Ryan’s never felt this alive before.

He’s still buzzing with excitement when they get back to their hotel room, and that translates into pretty much the best sex he’s ever had in his life.

Yeah, he loves Spain. He loves Spain a lot.

* * *

Having to part ways is more painful than either of them realize. Ryan, especially, has a hard time letting Shane go.

It hurts even more because they say goodbye at the airport, the same one where they met and started this whole thing.

“Hey, don’t start crying on me,” Shane says when the dam finally breaks and Ryan’s tears flow. He’s a mess of emotions, okay?

“Sorry. I just, I love you so much. It’s hard when you’re not here,” Ryan says. He wipes his tears away with the back of his hand.

“I know,” Shane says. He pulls Ryan into a hug. “We’ll see each other soon. You’ll come to LA for my birthday, right? I want to introduce you to my family.”

Ryan lights up at that.

“Yeah, of course! That sounds lovely,” Ryan says, smiling. He buries his face in Shane’s chest. He never wants this moment to end, not when he feels so safe and warm and loved.

“Good. I’m glad,” Shane says, plopping a kiss onto Ryan’s head. They stay like that for what seems like forever until Shane has to board.

“I love you,” Ryan says, drawing him in for a kiss.

“I love you too. See you soon,” Shane says.

Ryan doesn’t want to let go, but he has to.

* * *

_starry night, by vincent van gogh; when people die, they turn into stardust_

 

_“Why did Van Gogh paint himself so many times if he hated himself?” Shane asks one day, when they’re both lazing around with nothing to do._

_“The way that Van Gogh painted himself was how he saw himself. Maybe it was cathartic to him, or maybe it was for a gift? Either way, it was a representation of himself. I’ve heard that he had hypergraphia, which I guess was something that made him have an intense need to paint, but I’m not sure.”_   
  
_“I think he invented the first selfie,” Shane replies easily, laughing._

_“Nah, people were painting pictures of themselves before Van Gogh ever did. Maybe he did it for practice?” Ryan replies._

_“Maybe. Or maybe he was way ahead of the curve and invented Snapchat way before app developers did.”_

_“He should’ve patented it!” Ryan exclaims._

_“Wow, I can’t believe that Van Gogh was a time traveler who got rich off of inventing Snapchat,” Shane says, and Ryan laughs._

_“If Van Gogh could only hear you now,” Ryan says._

_Shane is quiet for a moment._

_“Do you think that Van Gogh knew how loved he was going to become?”_

_Ryan pauses, considering._

_“No, then he wouldn’t be Van Gogh.”_

 

Shane never makes it back to LA. The plane goes down somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean.

Broken engine. No one’s fault.

No survivors.

There’s no body to bury, there’s no resolution to be had. (Fragonard seems like a lifetime ago.)

To say that it hurts is an understatement. No, this is a different kind of pain, one that is bone deep and hurts Ryan to the very core. It’s agony, like Röttgen’s _Pietà_ \- and no, he can’t do this anymore. Even art hurts now.

He runs away after the funeral.

He too wants to jump into the Atlantic, but he knows he can’t. He knows Shane wouldn’t have wanted it that way.

But God, the _urge._

It doesn’t leave him, not even when he packs up his apartment in France. It doesn’t leave him when he’s on the train to Spain (he refuses to go on a plane). It doesn’t leave him when he disappears off the face of the Earth, when he finally lands in Granada and cries in front of _Alhambra._

He thinks of _Guernica._

The blacks and grays and whites blend into his soul; he doesn’t see the world in color anymore. How can he, when Shane was the one who brought color to his life in the first place? Now that he’s gone….

Ryan can’t even let himself think about it.

He travels from Granada to Cordoba, from Spain to Portugal. He takes a boat to Italy, but he never settles.

He’s running away.

He’s running from his grief, from his pain, from his heartbreak.

He doesn’t stop.

From Italy he goes to Greece, and he keeps on moving.

He hits Turkey, then Russia, then he runs around Europe willy nilly, until finally, finally, he stops in London.

He swore he would never go back.

He swore a lot of things, once.

London was never kind to him, but it was London that brought him to Shane, that brought him to a new chapter in his life, that brought him to life and brought him to love and that has to be worth something.

He still hates it.

It’s still cold, still wet, still rainy and gloomy.

He avoids The Wallace Collection, and art altogether. He can’t walk past the Tate Modern, he can’t go near Buckingham Palace.

He’s a fucking mess.

Eventually, he gets a therapist. She’s nice and all, but she doesn’t get it. Her solutions can’t bring Shane back.

One day, after a few months, she suggests he paint, since he loves (loves? No, loved) art so much. “All artists were heartbroken when they painted. I think it can be be good for you.”

She’s right.

He doesn’t want to listen.

 _It’ll be good for you._ Can anything ever be good for him again?

He has to try.

At first, he doesn’t know what to paint. He’s no Goya, no Kuan. He can barely draw a stick figure.

He takes Pollock’s approach and throws paint on the canvas. He ruins his apartment in the process, but it’s okay. It’s cathartic.

Pollock was definitely onto something.

Slowly, he starts getting better. Painting is the only thing that makes him forget, but for all of his forgetting, he always paints the same thing.

Ocean. A plane on fire. Grays, blues, oranges.

People start to notice.

He’s confused; he has no exposure. He quit being a tour guide, he stays away from museums. He doesn’t have anything to do with the art world anymore.

His therapist is a curator. She doesn’t tell him until his first painting sells for a million dollars. Ryan can’t believe it, it’s not real, it’s a fever dream. There’s no way he’s _talented,_ there’s no way that any amount of money can fix his broken heart.

He sends the money to Shane’s family in Los Angeles and keeps on painting.

It helps, in a weird way. It’s as if once he gets memories down on canvas, they become easier to deal with. He paints the sad stuff and it sells. He makes his living like that.

Every brush stroke feels like a release. He gets it now, why artists paint. (He gets why Van Gogh painted himself, why Kandinsky went wild with color.)

Grief changes him and his relationship with art. He doesn’t want to hate it anymore. He doesn’t want it to break his heart.

He starts painting Shane.

He paints the both of them in Barcelona, lovebites and all. He paints them in the airport. He paints them as he remembers them, with bright colors and burning hearts, with the stars above them and their dreams within reach. He paints them in red, with passion, with grace and with the lights of Paris behind them. He paints Shane in front of the Eiffel Tower, in front of the Louvre. He paints them kissing in the Musée d’Orsay and refuses to sell it.

He sits under the stars one day, months later,  when he’s out of ideas and he’s out of paint.

He’s better. He won’t be completely healed, not for a long time, but he’s making progress.

He looks up at the sky, pinpoints constellations to himself, remembers their stories. He looks towards Canis Major, Hercules, Cassiopeia.  

_When people die, they turn into stardust._

Ryan holds the stars close to his heart.

  


**Author's Note:**

> teacher!au coming soon :-)
> 
> EDIT: the lovely InkStainsOnMyHands wrote a companion piece/fix it fic for this one! pls go read it!! it can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11545875


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